


Our Tacit Melody

by sinestrated



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinestrated/pseuds/sinestrated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Spock starts acting suspicious around Valentine's Day, Jim makes a bunch of assumptions. Most are wrong. One is gloriously right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Tacit Melody

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 [ksvalentine](http://ksvalentine.livejournal.com) challenge. My prompt was: _Kirk thinks Spock is trying to woo him in preparation for Valentine's day, but Spock is actually just working on some completely unrelated project (something really science-y and unromantic) and is completely flumuxed when Kirk confronts him about it. In the spirit of the sitcom, there is, of course, a happy ending, wherein the whacky misunderstanding ends up bringing them together after all. :)_
> 
> I can never seem to write pure fluff, though, so think of this as an angsty sitcom? Also, apologies for all the sap dripping from this story. I will pick up all dry-cleaning bills.

The first time, Jim doesn’t think twice about it. He nods as Spock enters the turbolift, and tries to cover a yawn as the floors whiz by on the way to the bridge. Scotty kept him up half the night helping out with some upgrades down in Engineering. Jim really needs to start setting boundaries with his Chief Engineer.

“Captain,” Spock says, just as they pass Deck 7. “What is your favorite color?”

“Uh.” Jim scrubs at his eyes, trying to shake up some wakefulness. “S’green. Not like olives or whatever, but like dark, Christmas tree green.” Another barely-stifled yawn. “Why?”

“Mere curiosity,” Spock answers, and then the door opens, revealing a bridge that is far too bright and chipper for it being this early in the morning. Jim stumbles forward and occupies himself thinking of ways to stay awake through his shift. By the time he reaches the chair, he’s already forgotten about Spock’s question.

 

The second time, he gets curious. He’s eating dinner with Bones, the two of them engaged in a lively debate about whether Shauna Poloti or Mne’gaa Tuu is the hotter actress, when Spock sets his tray down on the table and slides in next to him.

This in and of itself isn’t a surprise. Partly by design but mostly by accident, they’ve all managed to become friends over the more than half a year they’ve served on the _Enterprise_ , and various members of the bridge crew spending off-duty time together is pretty common. Of course, Jim and Spock probably hang out together the most out of all of them, but who’s keeping track?

Bones stabs a fork into his salad and turns to Spock. “Well, Commander, you got an opinion? ‘Cause even _you_ gotta admit, a guy could get lost in Mne’gaa’s rack.”

Spock ignores him and turns to Jim. “Captain, I wish to know your music preferences.”

Jim blinks, sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Uh…what?”

“I have surmised that many humans hold an individual preference when it comes to certain forms of Earth-style music,” Spock continues without missing a beat. “I wish to know yours.”

Bones’s eyebrow creeps up toward his hairline. “You writing his memoir or something?”

“I see no logic in undertaking such an endeavor,” Spock answers. “Captain?”

“Um.” Jim tilts his head. Spock’s never been one for personal questions, but maybe he’s just trying to get to know them better. The thought of his stoic First Officer attempting to bridge the gap between them makes something warm curl in Jim’s stomach. “I like all sorts of music, really, but I’ve always been particularly fond of hardcore New Elemental rock. Y’know, the stuff that came out in the 2250s?” He smiles, and tries not to let the wistfulness show. “Mom loved that shit.”

“I see.” Spock straightens up. “Do you enjoy listening to music in general?”

“Yeah, I guess. I’ll usually put a playlist on in the background when I’m working on reports and stuff.” He bites into the sandwich; deep-fried chicken that tastes faintly of metal. Ick. “Why do you ask?”

Spock looks away. “I was merely making conversation,” he answers, before rising smoothly and picking up his tray. “Good day, Jim. Doctor.”

Jim turns to Bones as soon as he leaves. “Dude. What was up with that?”

Bones shrugs and fishes a tomato out of his salad. “Beats me. I’ll never know what goes on in the hobgoblin’s brain.”

“Don’t call him that. God, I hope he isn’t planning to blackmail me or something.”

“With your music preferences?”

“Lesser people have tried with worse.”

His friend shudders. They swore never to speak of _that_ particular incident ever again. “Point.”

 

The third time, Jim gets suspicious. Spock moves his bishop across the board and asks, “What first interested you in chess?”

Jim blinks at him, then frowns inwardly when all his First Officer does is regard him with his usual blank gaze, completely unreadable. He feels like he’s missing something, but decides to answer anyway, if only to keep Spock talking while he tries to figure out what’s going on. “Well, I was pretty hard to handle as a kid. Got in a lot of trouble, y’know? I’d drive all my sitters up the wall.

“But then I had this uncle, Frank, who’d watch me sometimes when Mom was on deployment. He was some professor at the local community college, math or engineering or something like that, and he bought me my first chess set more as a way of keeping me busy than anything else. It was this cheap little hologame—the CPU didn’t even have any advanced algorithms—but I jumped right on it. When Mom came home and saw it, she signed me up for the local chess club, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“I see.” Spock nods. “And what is it about chess that is so appealing to you?”

Jim shrugs. “I dunno. Probably the strategy? I like to challenge myself, keep myself guessing. When you spend the majority of your life getting told by other people that you’ll never amount to anything, every once in a while you need to get some validation of your own self-worth, y’know? And nothing does that like beating a Vulcan at the most logical game in existence.” He grins and nods at the board. “And speaking of which, Mr. Spock? Check.”

Spock hums and moves his queen. “Do you most often enjoy recreational activities that are intellectually stimulating?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. I mean, I like going out and getting drunk as much as the next person, but a lot of times there just isn’t anything quite like relaxing at the end of the day with a nice long Tolstoy or Dickens, y’know? Check.”

“I see.”

Spock seems only half-focused on the game, moving his king almost casually. Jim frowns and tilts his head. “Spock.”

“Yes, Jim.”

“Why are you asking me this?”

Spock clears his throat. “I wished to maintain a conversation during our game, Captain. Is that not proper etiquette?”

His face is still frustratingly blank; Jim’s gotten better at reading his First Officer over the last few months, but apparently there’s still room for improvement. He sighs. “Yeah, I guess it is.” Whatever Spock has up his sleeve, it’ll show itself eventually. “Oh, and Spock?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Checkmate.”

 

The fourth time, Jim presses. They’re in Spock’s quarters wrapping up some mission reports, and he’s just wrapped up a long rant about why he’s always thought the whole chocolate-and-flowers thing is completely overrated, and really, if someone is going to try to impress him then the surest way to his heart is a bottle of good wine and some home-cooked seafood paella. And then he notices that Spock is just _watching_ him, gaze steady and intense, and he falters.

“Okay, seriously. What’s up with all the personal questions?”

To be fair, Spock does appear caught off-guard. “I do not understand your meaning, Captain.”

“Well.” Jim sets his padd down on the desk. “You just asked me about _wooing_ , for crying out loud. And then yesterday it was the stuff about chess, and then the day before that you asked about music, and I’m pretty sure there was that one morning when it was my favorite color or animal or something but I legitly could’ve dreamt that. Why the sudden interest in me, Spock?”

When all the Vulcan does is continue to stare at him, Jim sighs. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t appreciate that you’re trying to get to know the crew. That’s great, really. It’s just a little…sudden? And honestly I feel a little like I’m being grilled, like you’re preparing an exam for Jim Kirk 101 or something.”

Spock frowns, and he looks…guilty? Shit. “It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable—”

“No, no, it’s not that.” Jim moves to lay a hand on Spock’s arm, and only remembers at the last instant to draw back. “I just…there has to be a reason you’re asking me all these questions, right? And if I knew the reason, then maybe, I dunno, I could plan some answers for you that would be most helpful. Or something.”

Spock regards him for a moment longer. Jim tries not to squirm under that steady, deep brown gaze. At last, his First Officer nods. “Very well. The reason I am making such inquiries is because I am currently engaged in a…side project.”

“Side project?”

“I assure you it has not impinged on my schedule or performance in any significant way,” Spock says. “But in order to ensure the maximum probability of success, I am required to ask you certain questions.”

“Oh.” Jim manages to nod, even though he just feels more confused. “Um. Okay. What sort of project is it?”

“I would prefer not to elaborate at this time, as I am still in the early stages and am not yet certain of the viability of the finished product,” Spock answers. “However, rest assured, Captain, that I will inform you of the project’s parameters as soon as all relevant data has been collected.”

Which is basically Spock-ese for _It’s mine, my own, my precioussss._ Jim’s run into duranium walls that were less sturdy than the barriers Spock puts up when he doesn’t feel like talking about something.

It’s not a no-win scenario, just a…compromise. “Okay. Just thought I’d ask.”

They wrap up the paperwork in only a few more minutes, and it isn’t until Jim is safely back in his quarters that he allows his thoughts to drift back to their conversation. It is pretty weird, though, isn’t it? In the seven or so months since they first accepted their commissions as commanding officers of the _Enterprise_ , Spock has made next to no attempts to connect with Jim on a level more personal than occasional meals in the mess and chess games in his quarters. Hell, it took Jim three weeks to learn that Spock and Uhura had broken up, and that was only because Uhura started dating that Australian lieutenant over in Botany.

Still, Jim knows he’s lucky to have even this much of Spock. Relationships have never come easy to the Vulcan, that much is clear, and the fact that Spock is even willing to spend time with Jim outside of shift speaks volumes about how far they’ve come with each other. Maybe that’s what did it: Spock’s willingness to be open, even just a little. Drawing Jim in with that fleeting, tantalizing look at what was underneath, the same way a prey fish gets baited by a glowing lure.

It happened entirely without Jim’s permission. In fact, it’s like it took no time at all: one day they were coworkers, the next day they were friends, and the day after that, Jim looked at Spock working at his station on the bridge and thought, _I can’t imagine living without him._

He’s not sure if it’s love. He doesn’t actually know what love is—never established a close enough connection to get a taste. But he does know that, with Spock, it’s _different_. When he looks at Spock, he doesn’t just see a long, lithe body that would look fantastic splayed on his bed (although that particular image has certainly featured in a lot of his fantasies). He sees someone he connects to, someone who will accept all the cracked and imperfect parts of himself, someone he can bond with on a level that’s deeper than sex, deeper than lust, deeper even than the loyal, unbreakable friendship he has with Bones.

He’s not sure if it’s love, but there’s one thing he _is_ sure about, and that is that the whole situation is _terrifying_. Half the time Jim tries not to even think about it, conducting himself with Spock as professionally as possible, not attempting even a hint of flirtation. Because Spock is straight, and half-Vulcan, and also his immediate subordinate. None of which bodes well for Jim’s prospects.

It has to be an innocent thing. Just Spock trying to reciprocate Jim’s friendship in his usual straightforward, slightly awkward way. Or maybe he is writing that memoir. Jim wouldn’t put it past him. _Douchebag: How I Managed to Go Five Years Without Shooting James Kirk Out an Airlock._

The communicator beeps, and he quickly flips it open. “Kirk here.”

“Hey, Jim.”

“Bones! We still on for breakfast tomorrow?”

His friend sighs. “That’s why I called. Some idiot down in Engineering managed to make a console blow up not only in his face, but that of two of his teammates. Burns like nobody’s business; the skin regenerations alone’re gonna take at least ten hours.”

“Shit. Anything more serious?”

“Nah, mostly just surface cosmetic stuff. But seeing as there’s three of ‘em…”

Jim sighs. “Yeah. I understand. No big deal.”

“Sorry, Jim. Hey, I know it’s gonna be hard to make it up to you over the next few days ‘cause I’m on call, but you got any plans for Valentine’s Day? M’Benga takes over that night, and I’ve got a nice big bottle of bourbon with our names written on it.”

…Valentine’s Day.

“Jim? You there?”

“Uh.” He forgot the communicator was in his hand. “Yeah, Bones, that’s…that’s good. Maybe not that night though; I might have…plans. Day after?”

To his credit, Bones doesn’t ask. It’s part of what makes him a good friend and a better physician. “Sure. Night, Jim.”

“Night.” The sudden silence that descends in the room is stifling. Jim flips the communicator closed and sets it very carefully on his desk.

Valentine’s Day. Could it be…? But no, it’s completely illogical, Spock wouldn’t…

But it would explain everything. The sudden interest in Jim’s personal life, the side project, that goddamned question about _seduction_. Is it possible?

He sinks into a chair and takes a deep breath, thinking. He always assumed Spock is straight, but the only evidence he has for that is Spock’s relationship with Uhura. A sample size of one; not much to go on. And yeah, Spock’s half-Vulcan, but he’s more than capable of feeling—Jim got himself a truly impressive set of bruises on his neck to prove it. And though fraternization between officers is generally frowned upon, it’s not forbidden. Spock did it with Uhura. Maybe he’d make the same exception for Jim?

Hope, stubborn and warm, rises in Jim’s chest despite his best efforts to squash it. He thinks about their recent conversations, the single-track _focus_ Spock fixed on him whenever Jim answered one of his questions. He thinks about all the away missions where someone’s tried to kill him (and once, memorably, succeeded—Bones will never forgive him) and how Spock always threw himself into the line of fire to save him without any thought for himself. He thinks about long shifts on the bridge, when he sometimes turns in the chair to find Spock watching him, and when their eyes meet the corner of his First Officer’s mouth will twitch in something almost-but-not-quite a smile.

He thinks of Spock talking about his side project a few minutes ago, about how he hopes for viable results after collecting all relevant data.

Jesus. Jim can’t believe he was so blind.

Spock has feelings for him. Furthermore, Spock is apparently planning something to reveal those feelings on Valentine’s Day. Jim knows he’s aware of the holiday, as he heard him conversing with Uhura about it the other day in the mess. What had he said then? _Although a highly-commercialized, overblown celebration of romantic partnerships is eminently illogical, I can see how some might use such an opportunity to express romantic feelings toward others without fear of rejection._

It all makes sense.

He’s grinning like an idiot, but he can’t bring himself to care. First he gets promoted years ahead of his time, then he gets the _Enterprise_ , and now this? It’s like the universe has finally decided to start making up for all the bullshit it put him through as a kid. Spock _loves_ him. The knowledge makes him feel like he could take on the entire Klingon empire.

Of course, the next question is: what is he going to do about it? Spock is evidently planning something big, which means Jim will have to reciprocate with something equally significant. He doesn’t want to ruin it, not when they’re this close to getting what they both want. So what…

And then it hits him with a strange mix of anticipation, grief, hope, and dread.

The rose chime.

His throat tightens, and for a moment all he can do is stand there in the middle of the room, staring down at the floor. He wants to, but he doesn’t. He’s had it for so many years…

_It’ll hold your love for you, Jimmy._

He swallows, then crosses to the closet. Behind the neat row of uniforms, coats, and the occasional civvie, the safe sits quiet and unobtrusive in the half-darkness. His hands shake when he inputs the code, pulling the heavy door open and feeling around inside, past the confidential documents and the backup credit chip…

His fingers brush something cold and light. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he draws the object out, peering at it in the half-light of the room.

It’s a Salurian rose chime, a hand-carved relic from the peaceful, arts-based, and now extinct civilization that once inhabited one of the outer planets of the Debii star system. Made from the branch of a native tree, it’s shaped roughly like a crescent, with a solid stone base and intricately-carved designs all along the sensual curve of the rust-colored wood.

Rose chimes weren’t often exported from Salure; the native inhabitants didn’t want the rest of the galaxy bastardizing the cultural value of the delicate art pieces. Traditionally they were used as symbols of love and courtship: when one Salurian wished to enter into a relationship with another, se would carve a rose chime and present it to hir intended. If the other partner returned the feelings, se would in turn collect a _rashi_ stone—blood-red, roughly the size and shape of an antique rifle bullet—from one of Salure’s many coastal beaches, and place it in the middle of the rose chime’s crescent. Something about the composition of both the chime and the stone would cause the latter to levitate and vibrate in midair, creating a low, slightly haunting tone that declared the courtship complete and the commitment made.

George Kirk had always been a sap. When he decided to propose to Winona, he spent half his month’s pay to cajole one of Salure’s finest artists into sending him a rose chime and a _rashi_ stone. Then he presented both to his then-girlfriend, who placed the stone in the crescent, laughed through her tears at the resulting song, and promptly said yes.

Two years later, George rammed the _USS Kelvin_ into a mining ship captained by a grief-crazed Romulan. The _rashi_ stone, which he wore on a cord around his neck, was never recovered.

About twenty years after that, Winona gave the rose chime to her only son, smile tired and brittle with pain yet still so strong, so beautiful. _It’s yours now. Carry it for both of us, until you meet someone who deserves it. Until then, it’ll hold your love for you, Jimmy._

Three months later she was dead, losing a battle against one of only two forms of cancer that modern medicine hadn’t yet found a cure for.

Now Jim looks down at the delicate art piece in his hands, the soft light of the room casting the wood of the chime so dark it’s almost black. He runs a slow, careful finger down the curve of the crescent. The arcs and dips of the intricately carved designs press against his skin like a whisper, a promise.

Six years he’s kept it, always stored in the safest place possible. It’s the most valuable thing he owns, after all, and that’s not just because the Salurians were wiped out by a freak supervolcano a decade ago, all their artistic knowledge lost in one giant, sweeping blast of fire and ash. It’s his last connection to his old life, his family: Mom with her bright laughing eyes, and Dad who was nothing but a warm memory and a name.

Jim takes a breath. He came close to giving the rose chime away a couple of times throughout the years: once to a sweet, honey-haired girl he’d dated for almost a year back in Iowa, and again to a tall, intelligent cadet in the Tactics track at the Academy. But those people were different. They weren’t _the one_. They weren’t Spock.

For Spock…for Spock, he can do this.

Carefully, he sets the rose chime on the corner of his desk. He’s never seen it with a _rashi_ stone, but he can’t help but think it looks so…lonely, just sitting there by itself. Maybe Spock can come up with a way to make it sing. Jim smiles. That could be his next ‘side project’.

The decision is made. No going back. Jim takes a deep breath, straightens his back, and resolves to wait for Valentine’s Day.

 

The next few days are torture. Jim tries his best to stay professional, he really does, but he’s pretty sure he spends the majority of all his shifts grinning stupidly at Spock anyway, if the strange looks Uhura sends his way are any indication.

Spock himself doesn’t seem to notice; he’s probably too preoccupied with his ‘project’. He asks Jim personal questions twice more, and each time the warmth that rises in Jim’s chest is almost overwhelming. It is all he can manage to keep a straight face while giving Spock his answers. If he had any doubts before about what Spock is planning, he doesn’t now.

Alpha shift on Valentine’s Day passes like a dream. To be honest, a whole armada of Klingons could probably attack the _Enterprise_ and Jim wouldn’t have noticed. The excitement and anticipation sing through his blood and he can barely sit still in the chair, putting all his effort into not turning around and just staring at Spock for the entire duration of their shift. When will he do it? Directly after shift? Over dinner? Some other time?

Their reliefs arrive, and Spock gives his customary nod to the bridge crew, including Jim, before heading for the turbolift alone. Jim quickly squashes the rising disappointment. Of course Spock wouldn’t want to do anything in front of the entire bridge crew. Vulcans value privacy, right? He must have planned it for later.

Except dinnertime comes and goes, and still nothing from Spock. Jim sits in his quarters and tries to work on the briefing for their next mission, but his attention just can’t seem to stick on the new trade treaty with the Beth-gnn. Why hasn’t Spock called yet? Did he get sidetracked? Waylaid by some emergency, perhaps?

Or maybe he’s having second thoughts. Maybe he’s decided Jim isn’t worth it after all.

Deep, bone-crushing disappointment rushes through him, a searing cold like creeping frostbite. It couldn’t have been a mistake…could it? Did he—

The incoming beep of his communicator sounds out like a gunshot; Jim actually jumps before scrambling for the little device and flipping it open. “Kirk.”

“Captain.”

And, just like that, the disappointment gives way to a wave of relief. Everything’s going to be okay. “Y-Yes, Spock.”

“I…hope I am not interrupting any evening plans. I am aware today is technically an Earth holiday.”

“Oh.” Jim straightens his shirt, then remembers he’s alone in the room and barely refrains from kicking himself. Smart, suave James T. Kirk, reduced to a bumbling idiot with just a few carefully spoken words. “No, Mr. Spock, of course not. What can I do for you?”

“I request your presence in Science Lab 14. I have now completed the preliminary stages of the project I informed you of a few days ago, and I would value your input on the finished product.”

Holy shit, it’s happening. It’s a miracle Spock can’t hear the pounding of Jim’s heart over the line as he stammers out, “S-Sure, Spock, I’ll be right there.”

“Very good, Captain.”

Jim closes the communicator and sets it on the desk, next to the rose chime. The finely polished wood gleams up at him as if in anticipation. _What are you waiting for?_ it seems to say. _He’s the only one who deserves me._

Drawing in a deep, shaky breath, he reaches forward and lifts the chime, cradling it to his chest like an infant. It’s time.

After months of brisk strides and harrowed runs through the halls of the _Enterprise_ , Jim has never walked so carefully as he does to the Science labs. Several crewmembers along the way give him nods and a few salutes; one casts an interested look at the rose chime but, smartly, makes no comment. Nervousness mixes with hope to create a churning in Jim’s gut, and by the time he finally reaches Science Lab 14, it is all he can manage not to turn right back around and run the hell away.

But he doesn’t. He’s Jim fucking Kirk, for crying out loud, and he’s about to be granted the greatest gift in the universe. Who the hell would run from that?

Taking another deep breath, he walks through the door. The lab is mostly empty, and Jim’s gaze sweeps over the long metal tables and the delicate instruments before finally landing on Spock, watching him quietly from the entrance to a small alcove in the corner. The Vulcan’s face is a smooth, blank slate, shoulders straight with his hands folded behind his back, and he nods at Jim’s approach, severe and professional as always. “Captain.”

Jim swallows. His grip tightens on the rose chime. “Spock.”

His First Officer tilts his head, blinking at the small art piece. “What are you holding, sir?”

“Oh, this?” Jim covers his nervousness with a soft laugh, and if it comes out slightly high-pitched, Spock doesn’t say anything. “It’s, uh. It’s for you, actually. For the…uh…the occasion.” And he thrusts the chime forward.

His heart leaps into his throat as he watches Spock’s long, beautiful fingers wrap carefully around the ornate wood, turning it this way and that as the Vulcan inspects it. When at last Spock lifts his head to look at Jim, there is a distinct softness in his eyes. “Thank you, Jim. It is quite aesthetically pleasing. Although I must admit, I have no knowledge of the function of this…object.”

“R-Right.” Disappointment flickers through his chest, but Jim quickly forces it down. Contrary to popular belief, Spock doesn’t know _everything_ , and Salurian rose chimes are so rare now. It’s totally expected. “It’s, uh. Well.” He opens his mouth, tries for the words…and his courage promptly fails him. “Um. Why don’t you show me your project first? Maybe then it’ll be easier to understand.”

“Very well.” Spock sets the rose chime aside and beckons to Jim as he walks further into the alcove. “Come.”

Jim dutifully follows, swallowing and reminding himself that he is a _big bad Starfleet captain_ , thank you very much, not a nervous teenage girl getting asked to prom for the first time. What does Spock have planned? What sort of elaborate, romantic scheme will he implement?

Spock crosses to a small control panel embedded in the far wall of the alcove. He turns and nods at Jim. “This is what I have been working on for the past two weeks, Captain.” And he presses a button.

Deep within the walls, something comes alive with a soft, throbbing hum. The room darkens as tiny lights flicker from the corners, and Jim breathes in, the anticipation building…

Slowly, something shimmers into existence in the middle of the room. His entire body tightens with eagerness as the nebulous form takes shape, curves and angles flowing into place, colors settling like a condensing fog, gradually, finally, to reveal…

Jim blinks. A spitting image of himself, hair neatly combed and dressed in his Command golds, stands in the middle of the room, staring straight ahead at nothing.

What…what is…

_Oh, no._

Spock’s voice is suddenly very far away as the Vulcan explains, “It has come to my attention that a significant portion of our away missions end in someone making an attempt on your life. I have been assured by Command that such hazards are to be expected for someone in your position. However, as First Officer, it is my duty to come up with strategies for maximizing your safety. Therefore, I have been adapting some of Starfleet R&D’s preliminary holotech projects to create a convincing copy of yourself.”

When Jim doesn’t answer, Spock just nods. “As you can see, the major details of your person were easy to manifest, as all your physical specifications are available in your Starfleet personnel file. However, without the proper emotional expressions, I found your holographic decoy largely…unconvincing.”

He presses another button on the control panel, and the hologram promptly smiles. Jim recognizes the expression: it’s not his full-out, _oh my god I love you guys_ grin, or the regular smile he gives to the other members of the bridge crew during slow hours on shift. It’s softer, more subtle, the expression he knows he sometimes makes when he’s alone and just feeling content.

And suddenly, terribly, it all falls into place.

“I am familiar with most of your more…blatant facial expressions: anger, pain, and surprise, for example,” Spock continues, completely oblivious to the bone-chilling cold now seeping through Jim’s veins. “However, I found it much more difficult to convincingly render your more subtle everyday expressions. Therefore, I engaged you in multiple conversations about your personal preferences, in an attempt to prompt some of these expressions, record them, and ultimately integrate them into the hologram.”

His throat feels like sandpaper, and Jim has to swallow several times before his voice responds. “I…I see.”

Spock tilts his head. “You…do not appear very approving of this project.”

“No, I…” Jim can’t look at him. Shame and embarrassment roil in his gut, all of it enveloped in a wave of disappointment that makes him want to sink to the floor and cry. Fuck. Of _course_ this is what it was. How could he have been so _stupid_ , thinking Spock could feel anything other than friendship for him? “It’s, uh. It’s very impressive, Mr. Spock.”

Spock nods. “As stated previously, this is just the first stage of the project. I plan, with further time and research, to eventually condense the holotech into a portable device that can be carried on away missions and deployed during emergencies. As I have modeled the prototype after yourself, you are more than welcome to co-sign the patent application.”

“Right.” Jim turns away. He has to get out of here _now_. “Okay. Comm…Commendable work as always, Mr. Spock. Great. I’ll just…”

He manages one step toward the door before Spock’s voice stops him. “Captain.”

It takes all his effort to turn around, and even then he can’t look at Spock’s face, can’t stand the blankness, the absence of the emotion Jim had been certain, only a few minutes ago, Spock felt for him. “Yes, Commander.”

His First Officer crosses the room to come to a stop next to the desk, where the rose chime still sits, quiet and lonely. “You have yet to explain the purpose of your…gift.”

The pain lances through his chest like a phaser shot, and Jim doesn’t know what sort of face he’s making but he’s sure it can’t be anything good. He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth.

“It—” His voice cracks, and he quickly clears his throat, covering it up by crossing his arms in front of his chest. It doesn’t provide much of a barrier, doesn’t lessen the shame and the sudden, inexplicable urge to hide away from Spock’s searching gaze, but it’s better than nothing. “It’s just a…a thing. To say thanks for, you know, all the hard work that you do. And stuff.”

It cuts through him like fire, like each word is a shard of glass tearing its way out of him, but he says it. And for once, he’s grateful that Spock has always sucked at reading between the lines, because the Vulcan just nods, reaching out to arrange the rose chime in a more suitable position on the desk. “In that case, though gifts are illogical, I am grateful for your recognition of my work. I will keep careful custodianship of this…” He hesitates, looking down at the chime. “…decorative paperweight.”

And that’s it. Jim can’t stay here anymore. He hopes the mumble that comes out of his mouth is “Of course, Spock,” but he’s not entirely sure, rushing for the door like a pack of Tambian dire-wolves are on his ass. Spock might call something out after him, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, and it isn’t until he’s back in his quarters, staring at the dim, empty _loneliness_ of the room, that he finally bends over to place his hands on his knees, breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.

Fuck, he’s an idiot. He actually thought Spock loved him, and in classic, moronic Jim Kirk fashion, he’d jumped in feet-first and ended up losing the most precious thing in his life. The rose chime, everything he’s always associated with love and warmth and happiness, now sits a soon-to-be forgotten decoration on Spock’s desk to collect nothing but dust and despondency. How could he have been so _stupid?_

He can’t take it back. Spock will take that the wrong way for sure, and Jim’s apparently so pathetic he’ll give up his most prized possession just to keep Spock from feeling bad. What does that say about him? God, he’s an idiot.

Spock doesn’t love him. Spock doesn’t feel _anything_ for him, and when he starts dating someone again he’s going to fuck them in his lab with Jim’s rose chime sitting forgotten in the corner, and Jim will have nothing of him. _Nothing._

The heat prickling at his eyes is familiar and the last thing he wants right now. Jim scrubs angrily at his face. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. He takes a shaky breath and clenches his fists, casting about the room for something, anything to distract him. He can’t think about this. If he does, he’ll break apart.

His gaze falls on the communicator. He scrambles for it like a dying man, dialing the code with shaking fingers.

The voice on the other line is tired, irritable, and the most welcome thing he’s ever heard. “McCoy.”

“Bones.” Jim swallows, clutching the communicator like a lifeline. “You…You still got that bottle of bourbon?”

 

Spock can’t concentrate.

It’s not a new experience; the profession he’s chosen has certainly presented him with numerous stressful situations during which even his impressive cognitive capacity has been taxed beyond its limits. But it’s still uncommon enough that, standing in his lab and discovering he’s been reading the same line of code over and over for the past minute, Spock has to frown.

He can’t stop thinking about Jim.

The captain’s behavior had been odd almost from the instant he entered the lab. First the gift, and Spock can’t deny the rush of warmth and something that could be happiness that surged through him when Jim had presented him with the ornate figurine. He glances at the wooden carving, sitting at the corner of his desk. It is beautifully made, evidently constructed by someone of considerable talent, but it also looks just the slightest bit worn, almost antique. Something exactly to his tastes, and imagining Jim seeing it in a shop window and buying it specifically for him makes Spock’s heart do an odd little flutter in his side.

 But then there are also the other things. The look on Jim’s face that, if Spock didn’t know better, would almost seem _crestfallen_ when he’d revealed the hologram. He had thought Jim would be appreciative of it, excited, even—holotechnology, after all, is right on the cutting edge of Starfleet’s latest research, and Jim should have jumped at the chance to utilize it on the ship.

But instead, he’d seemed disappointed. At first Spock thought it was because of the project itself, but more and more he is beginning to suspect something else, something he has missed. And then there was Jim’s hasty exit from the lab, as if all of a sudden he couldn’t stand to be in Spock’s presence any longer. The captain has never seemed afraid of him before, and the look on his face as he retreated—some strange mix of sorrow, anger, and self-loathing—had been so alarming that Spock had actually called out after him, trying to ask what was wrong, but his captain must not have heard because he left without replying.

And now Spock stands alone in his lab, looking down at Jim’s gift and feeling, somehow, like he’s just committed a grave mistake without knowing anything about what the mistake _was_.

He has hurt Jim. That much he can tell, and though Spock doesn’t know how he managed it, the fact that he has done so is basely unacceptable. Though it has only been seven months since they started working together, Jim has become the most important person in Spock’s life. He never thought it possible, that first time when he looked upon an arrogant young cadet and accused him of cheating on the Kobayashi Maru, but somehow, through smiles and teasing jokes and harrowed away missions and quiet chess games, Jim has managed to worm his way first under Spock’s skin, and then into his heart.

It is the reason he terminated his romantic relationship with Nyota, knowing it was unfair to keep her chained to him when his interests lay with another. He could never bring himself to tell her it was Jim he was drawn to, though, and thankfully she never pried.

Still, as the months have dragged on and Jim has continued to treat him with professional regard and a strictly friendly demeanor, not giving any hint that he might return Spock’s feelings, Spock has found himself regretting more and more his decision not to confide in Nyota. At the very least, he would not have to bear the burden of loving Jim alone. Perhaps he will tell her, the next time they meet. Her continued friendship, at least, is something he will always be grateful for.

The soft hiss of the door sliding open breaks into his thoughts, and Spock can’t help but blink at his visitor. _Speak of the devil,_ as humans say.

“Hey, Spock,” Nyota says, casting her gaze about the room. “I think I dropped the back of one of my earrings here when we were hanging out earlier. I want to wear them for David tonight, so I was wondering if you—is that a Salurian rose chime?”

Spock blinks, following her gaze to Jim’s gift. “You recognize this object?”

“Yeah.” Nyota’s eyes take on a bright, excited glint. She approaches the object—the rose chime—with something that can only be described as awe, touching the carved wood with almost reverent care, as if afraid the slightest misstep will send it crumbling into dust. “Wow, this must’ve cost you a fortune, Spock! Where did you find it?”

“I.” Spock frowns as something vague and nameless starts to take shape at the back of his mind. “It was…a gift.”

“Oh.” Nyota’s eyebrows rise. “From who?”

“A friend.”

The smile she turns on him then is just this side of wicked. “Let me guess: it was for Valentine’s Day? Spock, that’s so romantic!”

“I do not understand.”

She just laughs, light and beautiful. “Yeah, I wouldn’t expect you to—not a lot of people know about Salurian rose chimes,” she says. “Tell you what: I’ll send you some files so you can read up on it, and in return, you let me take a closer look at some point in the future, okay? I’ve never seen one up close, and with them being so rare, it’s just too good an opportunity to pass up.”

Spock looks down at the rose chime, hauntingly beautiful. Jim had clutched it to his chest like a precious thing. Then he looks back up at Nyota, watching him expectantly.

“Very well.”

She beams. “Great! Thanks, Spock. Now I’d better be getting back to David—any ideas about that earring back?”

“Unfortunately I have not detected anything of the sort in the immediate vicinity.”

“Damn. Well, I guess the red ones’ll do. See you later, okay?”

“Yes, Nyota.”

And with another wave, she is gone as quickly as she came. A moment later, Spock’s padd pings and he sees she sent him a blank message with several attachments. Opening up the first one, he begins to read.

Fifteen minutes later, he puts the padd down with shaking hands and looks at the rose chime. It’s not possible. Jim couldn’t have…

But he did. The evidence is right in front of him, small and innocuous on the table. Spock swallows, reaching out to pick up the chime. It is truly beautiful, masterfully crafted, and he wonders how Jim managed to obtain one so clearly old and in such good condition. Since there is no accompanying _rashi_ stone, Jim must not have bought it—perhaps it was a gift from someone else, or a family heirloom. And if Jim gave it to Spock…

The surge of emotions that rises up within him is a confusing mix of guilt and exhilaration. Jim said it was for “the occasion”, and there is a 99.6% chance he was referring to Valentine’s Day. And presenting it to him on such a day…it must mean Jim returns his regard. Spock doesn’t think he’s ever been happier.

But then something went wrong. Spock must have said or done something to somehow convince Jim that the feelings are unreciprocated, because the look on Jim’s face right before he fled the lab had been so full of shame and hurt. Did Spock miss something? Did he give some sort of indication that he wasn’t interested in Jim that way?

And then, of course, there is the fact that Jim decided to give him the rose chime in the first place. Though Spock has known the other man for less than a year, he learned early on that, for all his bravado and cocky façade, Jim actually plays things surprisingly close to the chest. The captain is guarded in a way that would fool anyone who isn’t actively looking for it, his easy smiles and laughing jokes often hiding a more serious, contemplative persona underneath. In fact, Spock was the one who discovered Jim played chess at the Academy, and it took more than a month of awkward invitations to get Jim to agree to a game, the captain caught off-guard by Spock’s attempts to engage him outside of shift.

So Jim making a move as significant as the rose chime is very uncharacteristic indeed, and Spock knows he never would have done it without clear motivation. Which means, logically, that Jim must have entered the lab today with the expectation that Spock would accept the rose chime in the way it was intended. Which means, in turn, that Spock has done something recently to alert Jim to his feelings for him.

Setting the rose chime back on the table, he sinks into his chair and stares at it, thinking back over the last few days. What might he have done to draw Jim’s attention? He always thought himself very careful about the whole thing, constantly reminding himself to keep his interactions with Jim professional so that the captain would never know about his deeper feelings. What gave him away? He hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary recently; perhaps a couple more meals than usual with Jim in the mess, or asking him all those…questions…

Oh.

Back when he was a child on Vulcan, his mother had a saying she always used every time he failed to understand one of her many subtle human mannerisms. _Spock,_ she would say, her smile warm, her eyes laughing, _If you get any denser you’ll start collecting satellites._

He’s pretty sure he’s got at least a couple of decently-sized star clusters orbiting him right now.

In the privacy of the lab, Spock allows himself a rare moment of humanity and drags a hand across his face. He does not deserve the two PhDs he currently holds. Certainly he asked Jim those questions with only the best of intentions—the hologram really _was_ unconvincing, its face so blank, so empty, so _not Jim_ it was all Spock could do not to just scrap the project altogether—but now that he thinks back on it, it wasn’t entirely innocent. Somewhere deep down, in that churning, greedy, _human_ part of himself that looks at Jim and can only think _mine_ and _forever_ and _take take take_ , Spock wants. He wants more of Jim, more than the small, tantalizing morsels Jim allows him over chess games and shared meals, and when he asked those questions he hung onto Jim’s every word, filing every answer away into his heart like a dragon hoarding gold.

And of course Jim caught on. How could he not, brilliant as he is, and of course he made assumptions, and of course he acted on them…and of course Spock managed to ruin the entire thing without even being aware of it. That look on Jim’s face when Spock turned on the hologram will be burned into his memory for eternity. He might as well have slapped Jim across the face.

What does Jim think of him now? Perhaps he is angry, furious at Spock for, as humans say, “leading him on” and then rejecting him at the end, however unintentionally. Or maybe he is embarrassed, having offered up such a huge, vulnerable part of himself only to have Spock brush it aside like nothing.

Neither outcome is acceptable. He has to fix this.

From its spot on the desk, the rose chime seems to mock him with its beauty. Spock takes a breath and brings up the rest of the documents on his padd, sifting through encyclopedia entries, ethnographies, detailed diagrams and photographs. Jim gave him the rose chime as an expression of his desire for commitment. The least Spock can do is answer in kind.

The easiest way, of course, would be to purchase a _rashi_ stone. Two hours of searching, however, turn up no leads—the stones, like the rest of Salure’s natural environment, evaporated in the wake of the supervolcano. The only possibility he finds has a list price so far beyond his pay grade as to be laughable, and he suspects it isn’t even authentic.

Which leaves only one other option.

If anything can be said about Nyota Uhura, it is that she is frighteningly thorough in her cultural research. And if anything can be said about Spock, it is that he is able to succeed in anything he puts his mind to.

He pulls up a diagram, the only known record of the molecular structure of a _rashi_ stone. Then he glances at the lab around him, at the multitude of cutting-edge, state-of-the-art equipment at his fingertips.

It is time for another side project.

 

Over the next few days, Jim tries his best to avoid Spock. It’s actually pretty difficult, firstly because they spend the entire work day together on the bridge, and secondly because he still has to make it _look_ like he isn’t avoiding Spock, and Jim’s always kind of sucked at multitasking.

Bones is a lifesaver. Jim hadn’t meant to spill his guts to him that night, but that’s what he ended up doing, slurring out the entire sordid story after three shots steeped in misery. His friend had been understanding in his own scowly, Bones-ish way. Which basically means Jim’s been spending pretty much all his off-duty time hiding in Bones’s office, planning all the excuses he’ll make when Spock inevitably asks him to play chess again, or to discuss their next mission over dinner in the mess.

Except Spock never does. Days pass without a single invitation, without anything more than a polite “Captain” every time he passes Spock in the hall or locks eyes with him on the bridge, and by the end of the week Jim feels wrecked. Spock seems to spend all his time in the science lab, disappearing directly after his shift and not appearing again until he reports for duty the next morning. And Jim can only think of one explanation for his behavior.

Spock knows. He’s figured out the whole thing with the Salurian rose chime, knows why Jim gave it to him, and now he’s disgusted. Of course, since Jim’s his CO, he can’t outwardly express his disdain, so instead he’s being passive-aggressive about it, avoiding Jim at every opportunity, sending a message more clearly than if he had punched Jim in the face.

Bones says he’s being paranoid. “Look,” his friend says, “the hobgoblin may be cold and emotionless and about one heartbeat away from being a robot, but Spock isn’t _mean_. Maybe he’s just confused. Give him some credit, Jim.”

And Jim tries, he really does. He tries to give Spock space (read: he continues to hide in Bones’s office), but as the days turn into weeks and Spock still makes no attempt to bridge the gap between them, he falls into despair. He’s destroyed them. One small misunderstanding, and Jim’s managed to ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

 _Mom, Dad,_ he thinks, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. _I fucked up. I’m sorry._

Someone chimes for entry at his door, and Jim quickly shakes himself and straightens up, casting about for the well-worn pack of cards Bones forgot on the desk when he left a few minutes ago. He has no idea why his friend is so attached to the thing, but far be it from him to judge someone for holding on to a keepsake from the past. “Come on in.”

It’s not Bones. Jim swallows, forcing what he hopes is a smile onto his face. “Mr. Spock.”

Spock’s strides are steady as he walks into the room, uniform neatly pressed as always, not a strand of hair out of place. “Captain,” he says. His voice is toneless.

Jim takes a breath, setting his padd carefully down onto the desk. _You can do this,_ he thinks, but when he tries to make eye contact he ends up instead looking somewhere in the vicinity of Spock’s left ear. “What can I do for you?”

Please let it be ship business. And if it isn’t, please let it be quick.

Spock doesn’t answer for a moment. Then he clears his throat. Jim blinks. Does he look…nervous?

“A grave error in my judgment has come to my attention,” Spock says at last. “I desire to correct it.”

“Um.” Jim blinks. “Okay. You know that last mission to Britu-Delta wasn’t your fault, right? Ensign Bgook should’ve been watching where she stepped, and even then it was just a couple of bruised ribs and a twisted ankle.”

Spock frowns. “This is unrelated to Britu-Delta,” he answers, and steps forward, bringing his hands around from behind his back. And that is when Jim sees what he is holding, and all the breath leaves his body.

It’s the rose chime. Jim stares at it as Spock approaches, and when the Vulcan sets it down on the desk in front of him, it is all he can do not to gasp for breath in the wake of the wave of cold that washes over him.

Spock is returning it. Jim should be grateful—it’s a precious keepsake; he should be elated that he’s got it back, that he’ll have another chance to give it to someone else in the future. But as he stares at it, all he can think of is that Spock is rejecting him. And Jim kind of wants to throw up.

“Um.” He coughs and looks away. “I, uh. You didn’t have to return it, you know. It was a gift, you…” But he doesn’t finish, because in that instant Spock straightens up, draws something out of his pocket, and opens his palm.

Jim stares. The stone in Spock’s hand is a deep, dark red, the color of well-aged wine. It’s slightly rounder than most _rashi_ stones Jim’s seen in various photographs, more oblong than bullet-shaped, and it’s also sharply faceted, not worn smooth by years of breaking Salurian ocean waves.

But it doesn’t stop his heart from doing a strange little flip before expanding in his chest until he feels ready to burst with it. He looks up at Spock, hardly able to breathe out the words. “Is that…?”

Spock swallows and looks down. “It appears we have had a misunderstanding,” he says, and if Jim hadn’t been listening for it he would’ve missed the slight tremor in his voice. “I have acted in an unforgiveable manner, first misleading you into drawing a conclusion and then not giving an appropriate response to your attempt to act on it. For that, I apologize.

“However,” he adds, and takes a breath, “just because you did not draw the conclusion I originally intended does not mean such a conclusion was erroneous. In fact, I wish to inform you that your assumption about my perspective on the situation is entirely accurate, and that the sentiments you have expressed with your gift are not unreturned.”

“Um.” Jim frowns; he’s really not in any state to even attempt to decipher that. Part of him seems to have gotten the basic message, though, if the hope rising in his chest is any indication. “Spock. What are you saying?”

Spock’s gaze flicks up to him, and the mix of fear, hope, and timidity in those brown eyes sends a jolt of electricity down Jim’s spine. Then Spock steps forward, curling his fingers around the stone.

“I have been remiss in expressing the extent of my regard for you,” he says, and bends down, carefully placing the stone in the middle of the wooden crescent. The instant his fingers draw back, a low, beautiful tone sounds out, soft as a whisper, like a long, drawn-out note played on a finely-tuned cello. Goosebumps break out over Jim’s skin, and he stares up at Spock, unable to move as the Vulcan takes a deep breath and says, “Therefore, though it is several weeks late, I wish to express my desire to, as the Earth saying goes, ‘be your valentine’.”

And just like that, everything that had been gray and crumbling in Jim’s world bursts into warm, beautiful light. He smiles, hardly able to breathe around the pure happiness rising in his chest. “Really?”

Spock looks at him, and the open hope on his face is both excruciating and wonderful to see. “Yes, Jim.”

And Jim may be a strong man, but he isn’t nearly strong enough to stay in his chair after something like _that_. “Well, fuck,” he hisses, practically leaping over his desk in his hurry to get to Spock. The Vulcan meets him halfway, and the kiss is everything Jim imagined it would be: warm and wonderful and not nearly enough. He pulls Spock in as close as he can, losing himself in the intoxicating heady taste he never thought he would have, and though the ship around them doesn’t suddenly explode, it’s a close thing.

It seems forever before they finally break apart, and Jim stares into Spock’s eyes, taking in the flushed face, the slightly parted lips. Slowly, he lifts a hand to press his thumb to Spock’s bottom lip, huffing out a laugh when Spock hums and flicks his tongue over his skin, a sandpaper-rough tease. “We’re both kind of really big idiots, aren’t we?”

“An accurate assessment,” Spock answers, his eyes dancing in the light. Jim has never seen anything more beautiful.

“Bones is gonna have a heart attack when I tell him about this.”

“It is fortunate, then, that he is a physician capable of detecting early warning signs of cardiac arrest.”

Jim laughs again. “You know, even he was starting to give up on you in the end. Started talking about how he was gonna stick you with the Cunian measles if you continued avoiding me.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I assure you I would have rendered the doctor unconscious long before he could reach a hypospray.”

“You’d nerve-pinch him for just making a threat?”

“As he seems fond of administering particularly brutal injections without suitable provocation, it is only logical to respond in kind.”

Jim shakes his head, darting in for another kiss. “You’re lucky I love you.”

The rose chime sings, and Spock smiles. “Yes,” he answers, “I believe I am.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Regarding translations:** All my works, including this one, can be translated without first asking my express permission. I ask only that you credit me as the original author and provide a link back to the original work. For anything other than translations, please ask first. Thanks.


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